


What Dreams May Come

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:03:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is in response to a <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=22619128#t22619128">prompt</a> at the LJ Sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme.  The prompt read as follows:</p><p>S/L established. One night Lestrade stays over at 221B, and John masturbates furiously to the sounds of Sherlock and Lestrade fucking down the hall, vividly imagining everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come

Really. Honestly. It was the truth. _Really_.

John told himself this over and over again as he tried to sleep. Really, he _wasn't_ jealous of Sherlock and Lestrade. He wasn't! The last thing John Watson wanted was a relationship with his off-the-wall self-professed sociopath of a flatmate, and he most definitely didn't want a relationship with a recently-divorced detective inspector from Scotland Yard. And whatever the two men decided to do together in their spare time was none of John's business.

Really. Honestly. He didn't care.

He had to admit to himself, however, that having to listen to the two men have energetic sex every single night was wearing a bit thin though. And not because it disgusted him; he might be be a heterosexual man, but hot sex was hot sex, and the sounds that reached his room upstairs were very, very hot and sexy indeed.

John tossed and turned in his bed, willing his persistent erection away. No, he wouldn't touch it. He would not. He. Would. Not.

No.

No.

Yes.

Why yes, yes he would.

With a distressed moan, John levered his pajama bottoms and pants down around his thighs, along with the sheets and blankets on the bed, just under his cock and balls, baring himself to the night air. He took a moment to slick his palm with lubricant and then took himself in hand. Closing his eyes, he pictured... breasts. Big, heaving breasts. And a slick pussy. And legs wrapping around his head as he put his tongue to...Sherlock's hard cock, which plunged into his mouth with the rhythm put in place by Lestrade's thrusts from behind Sherlock.

Argh!

John whipped his hand off of his cock and clenched his fists. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. Long, luxuriant dark hair. A narrow waist, a round arse, a sizable set of balls, pulled up tight to Lestrade's body, a steady stream of pre-come seeping from his fully erect cock...

Fuck fuck fuck!

John whipped his head back and forth on the pillow. Damn it, he wasn't getting anywhere. The panting and grunting sounds, now complimented by the rocking of heavy furniture downstairs were more prominent than ever in the quiet midnight air of the flat. He knew it. He was doomed.

After struggling for a further ten loud, sex-laden minutes, John, with a mental shrug of his shoulders, finally gave it up as a bad job. After all, it's not like he had to tell the men he had fantasized about them in the morning, right? Who would ever know?

So with this mind-easing and soul-clearing thought, John grabbed the lube once again from his nightstand and slicked up his left palm. Curling one hand around his rigid dick and the other stealing down to knead at his balls, John gave in to the images in his head.

Lestrade was topping. Clearly he was, as all the whimpering from downstairs had a definite Sherlockian feel. Lestrade probably had Sherlock up against the wall, naked, legs spread, and his considerable cock was ploughing a strip into Sherlock's near-virginal arse. Well. John honestly didn't know the state of Sherlock's arse, but these were his fantasies, right? He could make Sherlock a virgin if he wanted, damnit.

Where was he again? Oh yes; Sherlock, wall, virgin arse. John's hand resumed its work. He wanked steadily, his fantasies aided by the moans, whispers and fleshy slapping noises that drifted up the stairs.

Yes, Lestrade was pounding away at Sherlock, perhaps pinning the man's upper body to the wall while pulling the man's hips backwards so that he was almost bent at the waist, his beautiful rounded arse front and centre for Lestrade's pleasure. Surely Lestrade was kissing and licking Sherlock's neck, perhaps running one hand down the man's back as he gripped his hip with the other, gripping tight enough to leave bruises that John would never see. John moaned at the thought of asking Sherlock to show them to him.

There was a pause in the slapping sounds and the rumble of quiet speech drifted up to John. The squeaking of bed-springs. The bed.

Yes, now the pair of them were on the bed. Sherlock, on his elbows and knees, arse proudly aloft in the air, his widely stretched hole beckoning the the DI onwards. No, they had just done it from behind. Perhaps Lestrade wanted to see Sherlock's face. Okay. Sherlock on his back, his legs hoisted up in the air and off to the side, a pillow under his hips to make the entry more smooth.

As if his mental vision was spot-on, John heard a single long, low groan from below. John imagined Lestrade making that sound as his dick sank inch by inch into the hot, slick confines of Sherlock's body. Sherlock was chanting something over and over, but John couldn't pick out what it was. Lestrade in his mind propped himself up over Sherlock's body, one hand on each side of his chest, and began to piston his hips, drilling his dick into Sherlock's sure-to-be-aching arse. He saw Lestrade lowering himself down to kiss Sherlock soundly and with a lot of tongue, and saw him urging Sherlock to wank himself in time to the DI's thrusts. Sherlock was moaning lowly by this point.

John knew he was getting close. He dipped the hand on his balls down and circled his own anus with his slick fingers, taking a deep breath before breaching himself with his middle finger, reaching in vain for the prostate that he knew was too far for his short, unsteady fingers to reach. But he continued pushing his finger inside himself, imagining something much larger in its place.

John wanked feverishly, squeezing and stroking, playing with his foreskin and flicking at the glans, and all the while the sounds from the downstairs bedroom increased in audibility. It felt like the two men were in the room with him, and the sudden mental image of himself as part of their coupling threw him bodily over the edge. He shuddered as he spilled his seed all over his chest, and drew the orgasm out as long as he could, looking down and watching the last few jets of come exiting his body.

Oh, if only the two men downstairs were here to watch him. But it was not to be, even if they did all seem to be on the same timeline: John listened close as two choked yells echoed through the apartment at just about the same time. The sound of the bed scraping the floor stuttered to a halt, and after a few moments, John could hear low murmuring again.

John made a little grimace of distaste at the cooling spunk on his stomach. It was all well and good to imagine one or the other of the men downstairs licking him clean post-coitus, but it was not reality and he needed to clean himself up. He reached for a tissue from his nightstand and did the job. Now, now he would be able to sleep. And sleep he did.  
When John came downstairs for his breakfast the following morning, he had totally forgotten about his night-time experiences. He yawn and stretched, scratching his belly absently as he dazedly made his way downstairs. That dazed state was not to last, however, as he entered the sitting room only to find Lestrade naked and bent over John's own chair.

"Buh... bu... wha..." John spluttered, absolutely speechless at this gross disruption of the status quo.

"'morning...John," Sherlock panted, barely checking his speed as he slid himself smoothly in and out of Lestrade's body. His cock glistened slickly in the early morning sunlight from where it filtered through the curtains. John spared a thought for the DI - surely he mustn't like being impaled naked in the sitting room of a man who was not his partner, and in fact was more of his colleague and friend than anything else?

Far from being embarrassed, Lestrade himself looked over at John with a cheeky wink. "Hallo John! Uh, yeah, right there, Sherlock. Yeah, there. Again! Again! Yes."

John suddenly realized that he was feeling faint. He staggered slightly. "John!" started Lestrade, "we thought, what with your activities last night, that you might want a chance to join us!"

John's mouth hung open at the lascivious expression gracing the DI's face. Had John really been so obvious? A kind of choked gurgle issued forth from his throat, and he was aware of the fact that his morning wood, having dissipated after his morning piss, was back with a vengeance.

Sherlock continued for the panting DI. "Yes. And since we know that you're too demure to ever agree to such a thing before the fact, you being, you know, _heterosexual_ and such," he fairly sneered the word out, "so we decided to make it easy for you. You want in? Well, pick your position and get in on it, man!"

If there was one thing John Watson was sure of, it was that this morning would be one which he would remember for a very, very long time.


End file.
